


This Time Tomorrow

by impatient14



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: EMP, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Starting after the watson domestic and extending all the way through TAB, water is gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 17:17:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8762029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impatient14/pseuds/impatient14
Summary: Sherlock's been out of the hospital a week. John is back living at Baker Street. One night, when the doctor gets up to check on the still healing detective, he finds Sherlock standing in the rain. Smiling.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set to the song This Time Tomorrow by Trent Dabbs. I highly recommend you listen along, starting when John’s argument “dies on his tongue.”
> 
> https://soundcloud.com/farca-denisa/trent-dabbs-this-time-tomorrow

_“He’s right. It’s what you like.”_  
_“She wasn’t supposed to be like that. Why is she like that?”_  
_“Because you chose her.”_

A violent clap of thunder cuts through the velvet baritone of Sherlock’s voice in John’s head. The doctor starts awake, his eyes immediately searching for the clock on his nightstand. 11:30pm. He’d only been asleep an hour. 

John shifts in his bed, pulling his hand up to rub at his tired eyes. He hasn’t been getting much sleep since Sherlock was released from the hospital. Hell, he hadn’t gotten much sleep when Sherlock was _in_ the hospital either. Even the nights the nurses took pity on him and let him sleep beside Sherlock’s hospital bed in a horrible excuse for a chair, John didn’t really sleep. Sherlock was too restless. He would cry out occasionally, going on about someone named Ricoletti- a name that sounded awfully familiar to John but he couldn’t quite place. Other times Sherlock would mumble John’s name and once he recited his own name in full, followed by, “I think it could work.” John actually thought Sherlock was awake one afternoon when he asked John to pass him his revolver. The detective’s voice was so clear, so… _irritated_. It was as if Sherlock was having an entirely lucid dream, and occasionally John would get a look inside of it. 

Sherlock was released from the hospital almost a week ago, but John’s best friend was still not yet recovered from the gunshot wound John’s soon to be ex-wife had given him. He allowed John to nurse him back to health, accepting cups of tea and not arguing whenever John called him to a meal. They hadn’t talked about John reclaiming his bedroom at the top of the stairs in 221B. It was an unspoken expectation. 

Another clap of thunder pulls a deep sigh from the doctor, the sound drowned out by the rain pounding against his window.

They were to meet with Mycroft tomorrow to discuss what should be done about Mary, who had all but disappeared since their fight at Baker Street. She texts John occasionally, making it known that she would like to “work through their differences.” Whatever that means. _Differences_ is certainly putting it lightly. 

John would have preferred for him and Sherlock to deal with the situation on their own, but Sherlock insisted his brother be involved. Something about accounting for all possible outcomes. Again, whatever the fuck that means. John just wants it done. He wants her gone. He wants her out of his life and away from Sherlock.  
Sitting up, John decides to check on the healing detective. He’s been setting his alarm for 2:00am to get up and check on him every night, but there was no harm in doing it now too. He was already up, after all. 

When his alarm went off two nights ago, John found Sherlock in the living room playing his violin. He wanted to scold him, send Sherlock off to bed immediately, but the sound of the detective’s bow sliding over the delicate strings of his violin coaxed John into his chair instead. He sat and listened as Sherlock played, and everything was alright for a while. They were just Sherlock and John again. 

No lies. No games. Just them. 

John had never stopped wanting that. Even when he and Mary were as happy as they were ever going to be, John never stopped wanting what he had with Sherlock in 221B. 

Now he could have it again. 

John carefully descended the stairs, skipping the step that creaks the loudest so as not to wake his best friend. As he rounds the banister, John notices something off. The front door is ajar. Rain continues to pour down outside the flat, the drips and drops that much louder with the door open. 

Normally, John would tense at the sight. He’d prepare for a fight. He’d be ready to defend. But in that moment, John only sighs in defeat. He hurries down the stairs, pulling the door all the way open to stare out into the night. 

As expected, his eyes immediately land on the tall figure standing just a few feet away from the door. 

A mop of wet curls hang loosely by Sherlock’s face as he tilts his head back and allows the rain to wash over him. He wears just a t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants, both of which are soaked through and now cling to him.

“Sherlock!” John calls over the rain. “What are you doing? Come back inside!”

Sherlock doesn’t respond right away. He continues to accept the rain as it pours down his face. His eyes closed, his expression relaxed. Content. 

“Sherlock,” John calls again. “Come on, you can’t afford to catch a cold. Come inside!”

Sherlock finally turns his head enough to look at John, his eyes opening and his lips curling into a faint smile.

“John.”

He says nothing more. 

John begins to worry. He steps out into the rain, putting his hand on the detective’s arm and gripping it softly. The raindrops collecting on Sherlock’s dark lashes distract John momentarily, making him pause to appreciate the man beside him before inquiring further.

“Sherlock, are you alright?”

“Quite.” Is his response. The rain begins to slow, soften. John can still hear him even though Sherlock speaks quietly. “I thought it’d be more… alarming.” 

“What?” John asks, his head tilting in confusion as his bed clothes soak in more and more water.

“The rain,” Sherlock replies. “It’s not so bad.”

“Sherlock-“

“Liberating in fact.”

“Liberating? Jesus, Sherlock you’ve still got a damn hole in your chest. Come on, let’s get inside and we can talk about the bloody rain all night if you want.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sherlock replies, turning slowly so that he faces the doctor. John shifts, letting his hand fall from Sherlock’s arm and turning towards him. The detective’s voice lowers even further, slipping into something smooth as silk. “I rather like it out here.”

Any argument John had hoped to form, dies on his tongue. 

Sherlock is looking down at John in a way he has never done before. The mask he usually wears, the one that serves as a reminder to John and the world that Sherlock is not like everyone else, has slipped away. The man standing before John is his most genuine self. His expression is open, his mouth soft and curved slightly upwards, not quite a smile, but just as beautiful. His eyes more than fond, searching John’s face, settling into the doctor’s gaze as if it were a warm bath.

And it’s all for John.

“John.”

Sherlock says his name so softly, so reverently, it takes John’s breath away. He feels his heart pounding in his chest, a moment he never knew possible is approaching him at a gallop and John can barely remember to breathe. The way Sherlock is looking at him, the way Sherlock is reaching up at this very moment and cradling the side of John’s face- it isn’t something John has ever allowed himself to wish for. This isn’t who Sherlock is, he isn’t supposed to be capable of having moments like these. That’s what has kept John sane this past six months, knowing that no matter what he feels for Sherlock, John was never going to have a moment like this with him. It wasn’t possible. It isn’t possible.  
John’s breathing becomes more erratic as Sherlock strokes his thumb along John’s wet cheek. He steps closer to the doctor, bringing their bodies within an inch of each other, continuing to look down at John in wonder. Sherlock’s lips part slightly as he regards the doctor openly. 

He doesn’t know when he decides to do it, but John suddenly feels himself reaching out for Sherlock’s other hand, slowly tracing the backside of it with his index finger.  
It feels like a test. John can’t help but expect Sherlock to jump and run away the moment John touches him, but he doesn’t. Instead, Sherlock turns his wrist so his fingers dust along John’s. And then they’re slowly moving their hands together, tracing the lines of each other fingers, sliding together and apart in a thrilling dance of exploration. 

Electricity climbs up John’s arm in waves, pulsing towards his chest and lighting his entire body on fire. 

Sherlock is touching him. Touching his hand, touching his face. And Sherlock is still looking at him, _really_ looking at him, in the kind of way that could only mean one thing. Even John could admit that. No matter what Sherlock has said in the past, no matter what mask the detective chooses to hide behind, what John is seeing right now, what he is _feeling_ right now, it’s all real.

John can feel himself sway slightly, his body knowing exactly what it wants in this moment, but his mind refusing it to him. The hand Sherlock has on John’s face slides lower, his thumb tracing the doctor’s jaw line, his fingers carding gently through the hair on the back of John’s neck. The detective watches closely as his thumb slides along John’s jaw, as if he is cataloging every inch of skin he comes in contact with. When Sherlock’s thumb reaches John’s chin, he then moves it up and slides it slowly over John’s bottom lip, his eyes glued to the way the doctor’s mouth parts upon contact. Sherlock’s own mouth parts, his tongue slipping out to wet his lips despite the excessive water falling down on them. 

Their fingers have stopped moving. Instead, they are intertwined, their palms clasped together with nothing but rainwater between them. 

Sherlock is holding John’s hand and they aren’t even running from the police. 

John doesn’t know what to do. He knows what he _wants_ to do, but he doesn’t want to scare Sherlock away. He stands still. 

When Sherlock’s gaze lift from his lips and come back to rest within John’s eyes, the doctor feels himself smile. It’s soft. It’s honest. It’s the first time John’s smiled since his wedding. The wedding that tore him apart. The wedding he didn’t even want to have. The wedding that left him with a gold band he’s since taken off, a fake pregnancy, and a wife he doesn’t even know. 

Sherlock must see the change in John’s eyes, the shift in his thoughts, because his brow furrows.

“Have you made your choice?” Sherlock asks, his voice so low it sends vibrations through John’s body.

John hesitates a moment before he answers. He thinks he knows what Sherlock is talking about, but if his deduction is wrong he could ruin everything he was ready to fight to get back.

“I never knew I had one,” He finally replies.

“You do,” Sherlock says, a guilty expression pulling his brow tighter. “Although, I’ve calculated the inevitabilities of both choices and I assure you, one is far more favorable than the other.”

“I don’t care,” John hears himself say. “I don’t care which is more favorable.”

Sherlock sucks in a breath, hope replacing the guilt in his eyes, making John swallow back his reservations about exposing his heart so completely. If Sherlock can take this chance, then so can he. 

“I’d choose you,” John whispers. “If I had known-“ 

John shakes his head and steps even closer, pressing his chest against Sherlock’s and lifting the hand not currently being held, to cradle the detective’s cheek.

“It would have always been you.” John wipes away what could be rain dropping down Sherlock’s cheek, but falls much more like tears. He leans even closer, pulling Sherlock’s head down gently so that their foreheads rest together. “It will always be you, Sherlock.”

With that, John presses his lips to Sherlock’s and everything else is forgotten. 

The rain that tumbles down on them. The fear of what tomorrow will bring. None of it matters.The only thing that John can understand right now is what it feels like to have Sherlock’s lips locked with his own, to have Sherlock clutching at him, pulling him as close as possible. 

There is nothing but them. Nothing but this kiss, this moment. A moment that has been waiting for them since the day John walked into the lab at St. Bart’s. This is what John was made for. He was made to be with this man. It was his purpose. Being with Sherlock. Working with Sherlock. _Loving_ Sherlock. John is one half of a whole. He always has been. 

The rain lightens at some point while Sherlock and John kiss, but that doesn’t matter either. They are already completely drenched, drowning in each other.


End file.
